


Step

by Princessfbi



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fierce Gaby, Hurt/Comfort, If You Squint - Freeform, Illya Kuryakin/Gaby Teller/Napoleon Solo, Napoleon Whump, Protectiveness, Team Dynamics, Tender Illya, Trust Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-25
Updated: 2019-03-25
Packaged: 2019-12-07 07:47:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18231995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Princessfbi/pseuds/Princessfbi
Summary: Napoleon goes missing on a recon mission regarding the alleged daughter of the Grand Duchess Anastasia Romanov. The aftermath will prove to be a new step for the team moving forward.





	Step

It was a simple recon mission.

So simple that a novice agent could have done it. The only reason Solo had been sent in the first place was because it required a rather delicate judgement call that Waverly didn’t trust in the hands of a green agent. A woman claiming to be the daughter of the Grand Duchess Anastasia Romanov was stirring up some trouble in Belgium --- a country that would rather not have any stirring of any kind after King Leopold III’s abdication only a short decade earlier--- and her supposed mother hadn’t been seen since Prince Frederick of Sax-Altenburg helped her across the border into Germany during the war and was therefore no help in verifying the supposed Duchess’s identity. However, it could cause some rather problematic upsets on both sides if her claim rang true and gained enough supporters. UNCLE wanted to act as a buffer before the Cold War got uncomfortably warmer.

Illya hadn’t been assigned as a means to “avoid putting him in a rather difficult position” which suited Illya just fine. The Russian royal family had almost destroyed Russia with their vanity. Besides, he could be arrested if the wrong people heard he had even been in the room during the discussion. The Union was much better off without them in absolute power. But Illya also wasn’t someone to celebrate the slaughter of innocent women and children either. As an agent for UNCLE and of his own morality, he would spare them if he could. But as KGB he would be expected to finish the job. And even if he was in the comforts of an early winter in London, Illya wasn’t naïve enough to think that his handlers from home weren’t watching his every move.

Good riddance to the whole business.

Later, he would resent that kind of consideration when they lose contact with Napoleon.

The Duchess, as she had previously been known, was going by the name of Alexandra Victoria Alix Maria Romanov but Solo had been able to drag out another rather unpleasant name from whatever dark shadows the Duchess had hoped to never hear from again: Eunice Anne Braun. Eunice being the illegitimate daughter of Ilse Braun, the sister of Hitler’s mistress and therefore not a Russian duchess. From what they could gather, Eunice didn’t share in her mother’s ideals of avoiding politics and was… a little bit of a ‘self-absorbed nutter’ as Gaby had coined.

Gaby was really enjoying the English phrases and slangs that she would pick up after an afternoon enjoying the rare English sunshine.

But the name was about all they got from Solo before they lost contact with him which is how Illya and Gaby found themselves trying to seem like oblivious dopey honeymooners taking in the sites of the Belgium countryside. The role was usually very easy for them to slip into but they were both a little edgy and pricklier than usual. They were a little too close to the German border for Gaby’s patience and Illya couldn’t fault her for her paranoia. In fact, he had to commend her on it. She was growing in her instincts with each mission. They’d only been a team for a little over seven months and she was already so much more than the Little Chop Shop girl he’d known.

And Illya… He couldn’t help but feel like his early premonitions from back when this whole ridiculous partnership began in Istanbul were coming true.

That something would become too much for Gaby, who despite her best efforts, still didn’t have the total constitution for some of the harder things that came about this job. That Napoleon would take flight one day now that his leash had slackened, distracted one way or another by something shiny and glittering.

That Illya would be left looking like a fool, standing behind and left to pick up their messes.

He never voiced his concerns because he knew Solo would call him a ‘Negative Nelly’ whatever that was and Gaby would take the offense as a challenge to break something. But he couldn’t stop the nagging voice in the back of his mind as they continued to comb everywhere for some sign of Solo.

There was nothing.

His hotel was immaculate with his suitcase unpacked in case there was a need for a speedy retreat. The payphone he had placed his last call was still intact. The quaint little town he had been in was free of bullet holes and destruction that seemed to follow them everywhere. Everything untouched. Clean.

The only suspicious thing that Gaby and Illya both clung to, to avoid voicing what neither of them wanted to admit was that the Duchess was also gone.

When it was all said and done, Solo had been MIA for two weeks and they only found him through sheer dumb luck. A fact that stung worse than the bruises they had gained throughout the whole process. The Duchess resurfaced in Luxembourg, seemingly conning her way into one of the remaining castles still in working order, and throwing a party that was a thinly veiled rally to gather what was left of Hitler’s followers who hadn’t ran to South America. The infamous Uncle Rudi came in handy when Gaby was able to drop his name and her relation to gain an invitation.

They both wore black. Gaby in a fitted tulle swing dress and a string of pearls that aged her a few years but played the part of respective German aristocrat and reminded Illya too much of a racehorse and cart horse insult that had been spat at him at racetrack in Italy.

Illya in a turtleneck and cap that made him as forgettable as Gaby memorable. Gaby was to drink her way through the party to hear what exactly the Duchess had planned and catch if she let slip anything about a rogue agent that had been tailing her from a distance. Illya was to bug her until UNCLE was swimming in her correspondence. Even if she was simply involved for the fame and attention, a decorated agent had gone missing. She had signed her surveillance priority herself with her little charade.

Finding Napoleon hadn’t even seemed like a possibility that evening.

But when Illya had cleared through the cover of the trees and made his way to an old service entrance to make his way up the winding steps to the Duchess’s chambers, he stopped.

He can’t really say what it was that made him stop. He did not believe in feelings and he certainly did not divert from well executed planning. But something made Illya stop in his sweep and turn to the small bolted door.

It was idiotic for Illya to be flipping the deadbolt and working the second lock past the ill matched latch. Anything could’ve been waiting for him behind the door and Gaby was most certainly waiting for him while she waded through a pool of actual Nazis upstairs. But something at the back of neck traveled into the base of his spine and he was working the door open with his gun in his hand before he could second guess himself.

The room was bare and cold from the stones lining the walls. Being so close to the old kitchen it probably housed salted meats back when the palace was filled to the brim with royalty and visitors and servants. The smell, however, was the first thing that hit Illya. Sweat wasn’t an unfamiliar scent in Illya’s life. But the combination of sweat and urine and _blood_ were a fragrance within itself. Only a few things could come from the marriage of those scents and he tightened his hand around his gun as he peered inside.

Movement caught the corner of his eye and he swung his arm around to aim but the movement continued and it took Illya a moment too long to realize it was a body struggling to use the corner to get upright. It took him a moment even longer to realize the body was Napoleon.

“Cowboy?” He asked.

He couldn’t see much with such little light but he could clearly make out Napoleon’s exposed, bruised body with nothing but a pair of dirty boxers as a form of protection against the damp chill in the air. Solo’s feet were bound with thick strands of rope, his arms pulled tight behind him, and the stone corner where he must have taken refuge was doing nothing to help him upright from the apparent struggling sliding sounds Solo’s body was making on the ground.

Illya stepped forward and stopped the moment his foot knocked into a hard loaf of old bread. It slid with a stale hollow sound across the floor.

Napoleon froze, his body suddenly very still in the corner.

But Illya didn’t have the luxury to wonder why a stale piece of bread stopped Solo.

“I will be right back,” he said in a whisper, turning back to the door and running out into the hallway.

He swept the remainder of the servants’ quarters for guards but everything was silent and still in the way only true emptiness can achieve. Truly, idiotic to leave a trained agent unguarded so close to an exit but then again, The Duchess thought she could pass as a Russian _and_ a Nazi. Even Russian aristocrats would spit in the last drop of water than be both.

After his sweep, Illya snatched up what looked like an old gardener’s jacket and hurried back to where he’d left Napoleon in case he had just dreamt about finding his partner after two weeks of little sleep. But when he returned, Napoleon was still there, his shoulder propped up against the corner and his right foot planted on the ground in front of him.

The stale bread had been kicked to the other side of the room.

“We have been looking everywhere for you, Cowboy,” Illya said, quietly.

He pulled his knife from his thigh and sawed through the thick wrappings around Napoleon’s ankles. Solo stiffened when Illya’s fingers brushed against cold swollen skin. He turned his hand to probe at the ankle, tightening his hold when Napoleon tried to pull it away.

“Be still,” Illya said, frowning when Napoleon remained silent.

In fact, he was beginning to realize that Napoleon hadn’t said a word since he’d found him.

“Does it feel like foot is broken?” Illya asked, pressing but not unkindly on some of the ligaments.

Again, Napoleon said nothing, inhaling sharply when Illya’s thumb pressed a tender spot. Illya could feel Solo’s toes curl and he cupped the foot in his hand to try and ease some of the agony. Solo was probably stricken with the pain. The American was a proud man and even after being electrocuted, he had fast quip ready when Illya arrived. But a man had his limits and Illya was forced to remember that Napoleon had been like this for close to two weeks.

Illya heard the scuff of a leather shoe on stone before the drunken cough reverberated down the hall. Solo must have heard it too because he snatched his foot away and curled it down in front of him. Illya grabbed the remains of the rope from his ankles and jumped to silently close the door of the cell, cloaking them in sudden suffocating darkness. With his back stiffened, he melted into the shadows just before a cruel chuckle echoed into the room.

The door opened with a lazy push and in the doorway stood a tall gentleman in an off the rack tuxedo.

Later, Illya wouldn’t have been able to tell you what the man looked like; That he would only remember the way the wafts of cigarette smoke and expensive cognac reeked into what little fresh air was in the room.

“Oh, haustierchen,” the man said in a heavy accent. “Does the Duchess already have you so trained that you don’t even try to escape when the guards leave the door unlocked?’

Napoleon was still uncharacteristically silent.

Even in the worst kind of pain, Illya would’ve thought Solo would’ve had something to say about being called a haustierchen. But there was nothing and Illya could only curl his fist tight around the strands of rope.

At least the oblivious German idiot brought a flashlight and had it pointed at Napoleon so Illya could see a little more clearly what state he was in.

Sharp angry bruises clawed around Napoleon’s ribs and spider webbed up the wide expanse of his torso. His knees and shins were red and scabbed like he’d been dragged on cement and the top of his left foot and ankle was a water color of swollen black and blue splotches.

He definitely wouldn’t be running out which could cause problems if they weren’t careful.

“Look at you, haustierchen.” The man tsked with his teeth.

He flicked the flashlight up and down the length of Napoleon’s body before settling on shining the light at Napoleon’s face. Solo winced at the brightness.

Illya, on the other hand, went very still.

Sweat had torn Solo’s hair from the thick confines of pomade into cascading curls over a large knot on his forehead. His cheeks were covered in short stubble, uneven and rough, like someone had tried to shave him and did a horrible job at it. Finger print bruises curled up on his jawline with cake lipstick--- the same shade Illya had seen on the Duchess just the day before--- wiped on as if to kiss it better. Napoleon had an old black eye that looked like the swelling had only recently gone down.

But his mouth…

His mouth was dry and swollen with his lips covered in splits and small nicks. One corner was bigger than the other like he’d been punched so hard that it probably broke the skin on the inside of his mouth.

But the worst was the old dried blood mixed with the super glue that was keeping his mouth shut.

The red hot rage plowing through Illya couldn’t even be described as anger. It was something raw and based deep inside of him where all the dark ugly things lived. It was twisted with possessiveness and offended vindictive promise of punishing retribution. It was so consuming Illya couldn’t even consider the suddenness of it all. He could only feel the stillness that replaced a usual warning twitch.

“I’m bored with the party,” the man drawled.

Lightning fast, the man grabbed Napoleon’s bad foot and _yanked,_ dragging Solo too him.

Illya was snapping the German’s neck even faster.

The dead weight dropped onto Napoleon before Illya could catch it, pinning him to the floor, and sending the American into agonized thrashing to get free.

The flashlight had rolled to the side and captured the movements in a crude puppet show on the wall of Napoleon’s prison. Illya grabbed the dead man by the scruff of his collar and tossed him aside like he was nothing, trying to shove as much distance between the body and Solo as possible.

But Napoleon just curled tight on the ground, his breath coming out in short sharp rasps through his nose. With his back exposed, Illya could see the outlines of boot marks and regretted killing the vile stranger so quickly.

“Yспокойся,” Illya said, grabbing his knife and slicing Napoleon’s wrists free. “Breathe slow, Cowboy.”

But it was as if the American couldn’t even hear him. Illya couldn’t blame him. Having a body drop dead on already tender ribs certainly did not help. But there was something else, something frantic and a little panicky in the sharp inhalations Solo was making. And if he continued he could pass out or worse, making himself sick. With his mouth the way that it was, it could easily kill him if he didn’t calm down.

Without thinking, Illya dropped down and uncurled Napoleon with gentle but firm hands before lifting him up and holding him to his chest.

“Come on, Cowboy,” Illya said in his ear, placing a hand over Napoleon’s chest and feeling the rapid hysterical beating of his heart against his palm. “You must calm. I’m here now. We found you.”

Illya wasn’t really aware of what he was saying as he tried to coax some level of self-control back for Napoleon. It would be terribly embarrassing for Solo later, he was sure, but Illya wasn’t really concerned with later. In that moment, Napoleon was found. He was in pain but he was found. And he would wait until Solo realized that too. He suspected there was the possibility of some drugs involved but there was nothing he could do for him there except sit with him to ride out the rest of the storm.

Another scoff of a shoe.

“Herr Dietrich,” a soft voice called.

Illya relaxed against the wall, taking Napoleon’s body with him and feeling the steadiness trying to find rhythm in his chest. Illya whistled the soft bird signal for Gaby to hear and in return heard the hurried clicking of her heels.

“Illya?” She asked, turning into the room and gasping. “Solo! You found him.”

“He is all right,” Illya said for her but mainly for himself. Maybe for Solo too.

Gaby dropped down beside them and lifted a small delicate finger, push some of Napoleon’s curls away, and doing a better job at hiding her disgust when she took in the site of his mouth.

“I’m going to go kill her,” Gaby said calmly, already turning.

“No,” Illya said, “Later. First, we need to get Cowboy to doctor.”

“Then we need to go now before I am missed,” Gaby said. She flicked a dangerous look at Herr Dietrich. “Or him.”

Illya nodded relaxed, projecting as much serenity unto Solo as he could, as he drew him closer. He waited until the beating beneath his hand finally slowed and then made eye contact with Gaby. She stared back and then blinked in understanding as Illya shifted his legs until they were hooked over Napoleon’s hips and pinned him down.

Napoleon fought instantly.

“Take his wrists,” Illya instructed. “Hold them in front of him.”

Gaby let one brief flash of hesitation appear on her face before she steeled her expression and reached for Napoleon’s hands.

“No!” Illya jerked with a well-aimed elbow and locked his body around Solo again. “His wrists. He may break your hands.”

Gaby grabbed Napoleon’s wrist and struggled to keep them in front of her.

“He doesn’t mean it,” she said with a grunt even though her apology for Solo wasn't needed. “He is scared.”

Something must have been on Solo’s face because it caught Gaby’s attention long enough that she almost lost her grip and fell forward. But she planted her hips on his thighs and pulled his wrists in front of her, twisting them a little as she did so. Illya was whispering reassurances again as he took his chance and pinned Napoleon’s head back towards his neck with a firm hand on his jaw, probably agitating the bruises even more. He flicked out his knife and checked with Gaby one last time. She dropped to her knees and held tight, keeping desperate fingers from clawing at Illya’s face.

“I’m sorry,” Illya whispered in Russian into Napoleon’s ear. “Be still for just one more moment.”

He brought the tip of his knife and cut the glue.

A sound escaped free from Solo’s parted lips that Illya and Gaby would both pretend they didn’t hear.

“He’s almost done, Liebling,” Gaby said, surprisingly affectionate coming from her. “It’s almost over.”

Illya was going painfully slow but the skin of Napoleon’s lips was already so fragile he didn’t want to cause more harm. When he was finally done, Napoleon sagged back against him, his fighting limbs dropping lifelessly in a heap in his lap.

“It is done,” Illya said, dropping his knife to the side and pointedly not looking at Solo’s blood on the blade.

Harsh ragged gulps of air rushed in and out of Solo’s chapped lips but he was breathing steadier than it had been.

“You two came for me?”

It wasn’t the rough scratch of a normally smooth voice that confused them nor was it the slight slurring of Solo’s usually easy words. It wasn’t even the lacking of some aloof quip that they would’ve expected to come from the American.

But the fact that it was a question left Gaby and Illya both a moment to pause. Napoleon sounded like he didn’t even think that it was a possibility. Something heavy settled deep in the pit of Illya’s stomach.

“I’m going get the car. I will meet you at other end of the bridge. He won’t make it to the rendezvous,” Gaby said in a tight voice.

She stalked out of the room with a kick to Dietrich’s limp arm before disappearing back up the steps to make her excuses at the party. It took Illya too long again to realize the resounding repetitive thundering was the rushing of his pulse in his own ears. Napoleon must have felt it but said nothing, choosing instead to be a sagging loose pile of limbs in Illya’s lap, trembling every so often as the shock coursed through his body.

Napoleon’s lips made a painful smacking noise as he tried to wet them with his tongue and he swallowed before saying, “I don’t think it’s broken.”

“What?” Illya asked, ripped from the earlier blow that Solo didn’t think they would come for him.

“My foot. You asked…” Napoleon drifted off with a sigh as he relaxed further again Illya’s chest. “Earlier. You asked earlier. Bad sprain is all. Really bad…”

“Cowboy?” Illya asked with a little shake when Solo drifted off again. He peered around to look at Solo’s face but instead of the softness of unconsciousness, Napoleon’s eyes were squeezed shut and his face had paled considerably.

“The drugs on the other hand are making the room spin,” Napoleon said between gritted teeth.

“Then we will go fast. Puke later.”

Napoleon only graced him with a grunt in response and after some shuffling, Illya was able to slip on the gardener's coat over Solo’s shoulders before they hobbled out through the door where Illya had come. They only made it so far before Illya’s patience wore thin and he was slinging Napoleon over his shoulders and doing everything he could to go as quickly and quietly as possible without jostling his friend too much.

Gaby was right. They wouldn’t have made it to the rendezvous and she met them with the car already warm and wearing one of Illya’s sweaters that shallowed her frame.

Le Havre was a five hour drive from Luxembourg but Gaby made it there in four. She didn’t bother to hide the fact that she kept glancing in the mirror and neither did Illya.  Solo, tucked in the backseat, had fallen asleep--- or finally succumbed to being unconscious--- fairly quickly and remained that way for the whole journey.

“He didn’t think we would be looking for him,” Gaby said in a clipped tone, breaking the silence after three hours.

“I know.” Was all Illya could say.

Perhaps Solo lived up to his name more than they realized. He had after all been one of the CIA’s top assets. There wasn’t a lot of records of Napoleon working with partners before.

But it was worse than that. It wasn’t just the idea that he didn’t think they would be looking for him. It was the idea that he didn’t think they would _come for him_ and that was a very big difference _._

He didn’t say this to Gaby.

Waverly was already waiting for them by the time they arrived at Le Havre and when Napoleon’s injuries were cleared of anything critical, they were wrapped up and whisked away to the comforts of London. Except the comfort felt sharp and antagonizing against Illya’s skin like he was a raw nerve, too exposed to the cold. Solo was hurried into an UNCLE cleared hospital and being dotted on while Illya and Gaby were prodded with a debrief that set Illya’s teeth on edge. Apparently, Gaby had been able to slip some bugs throughout the Duchess’s things and a few well-timed raids crumpled what little of an empire she had been starting to build. An anonymous source somehow convinced East and West Berlin newspapers to expose her for the fraud she was and last Waverly had heard on the transcripts, the Duchess had gone into hiding after finding out that the KGB wanted to have a little chat.

When it came time for Solo’s debrief he asked for Gaby to be his witness and Illya took out his hurt with a run that had him sweating and out of breath by the time he reached the garage Gaby tinkered with her engineering projects. It was probably not wise that Illya lingered too long and Gaby would be cross with him if he damaged any of her projects but he stayed and paced until his heartbeat settled into something normal and his sweat turned into a damp chill. When she stormed into the garage in oil covered overalls and the murderous expression of her face, he was on her like a rash.

Gaby’s tools echoed throughout the garage as she slammed them onto her work bench one after the other.

“They glued his mouth shut when he refused to eat the food they brought him,” she said with a light lilt in her voice that betrayed her mood. “Told him that if he wanted to eat then he could _work_ for it. Then they beat him.”

The dangerous edge was highlighted by every thunk of metal against metal. The thundering beat of his pulse was back in his ear and his fingers twitched in time with Gaby’s slamming.

She spun around and lifted the hood of her car before dropping down inside with a massive looking wrench. “But you and I both know how stubborn Solo can be. So, rather than letting him starve they would pry his mouth open and force feed him with drugged food and then glued his mouth back shut. Then they would beat him again.”

Gaby pushed herself up and whirled around, startling Illya in the way only she could. “Apparently the Duchess decided she wanted to keep him as a pet. A haustierchen. So, Dietrich beat his foot with a broom stick to make sure that he couldn’t run if he escaped.”

The nothingness in Illya’s stomach soured and for a moment he could remember the smothering cigarette smoke and cognac that filled his nostrils as he snapped Dietrich’s neck.

Gaby lifted her wrench and jabbed Illya in the chest. “Do not destroy my projects.”

She waited for him to nod before she tossed her wrench back onto her work bench and crossed her arms over her chest.

“He…” She stumbled over her words and chewed hard on the inside of her lip like she always did when she heard herself break. “They left him in that dark room for days.”

She bit on her lip again and leaned forward until her forehead could press against Illya’s sternum. He curled his hands over his shoulders and held her, not surprised anymore by the way her touch could warm some of the cold rage away. They stayed that way for what could have been hours but was only a few minutes, gathering themselves and rebuilding pieces inside of them, before Gaby finally pulled away with a wrinkle of her nose.

“You smell,” she said.

“I jogged,” Illya said back and winning a small smile from her. “He will be all right. We will fix it.”

She didn’t say anything and nodded before disappearing back into her work. Illya ran back to his flat on shaky legs, his hamstrings begging for him to go easy on them. He eased himself into a walk on the last block, stretching as he went and checking to make sure he hadn’t been followed before making his way up the steps. He wasn’t even surprised anymore when he got to his door. Napoleon had made a habit of breaking into his flat ever since their arrangement with UNCLE seemed long term enough to invest in a place to live. A habit the American had passed onto to Gaby. Still, Illya couldn’t help the scowl that appeared on his face when he pushed the door open and was met with Solo lounging on his couch.

Solo smiled up at Illya in a way that was so strikingly similar to the one he had given Illya the second time they met. It was one masked with polite charm and oozed smugness. Something a little mean that uglied Napoleon’s face.

It was bait and Illya was too tired to take it.

“You shouldn’t be out of hospital,” Illya said instead, closing the front door.

“I imagine you’ve heard from Ms. Teller by now,” Napoleon said back, instead of arguing.

His curls were still affixed to the top of his head but pushed back like he had ran his fingers through it to give it some sense of taming. Illya resisted every urge he had to push them out and went to get himself a glass of water.

“Nothing I didn’t already guess,” Illya said.

Blue clear eyes tracked him across his apartment and he walked is way back into the living room so that Napoleon didn’t have to strain to watch him.

“Anything surprise you?” Napoleon asked with a light quip.

Illya stopped and stared at him.

It was a test.

Perhaps he understood a little better why Napoleon asked for Gaby instead of him. Solo had been forced to be vulnerable, a position the normally so controlled American never allowed himself to be. He didn’t want Illya to see him so impotent. So helpless. He was expecting Illya to poke and prod his wounded pride by asking about what he had endured. Perhaps he would try and spin it into another battle; another war wound.

“You confused us,” Illya said instead, surprising the American.

It was a testament to how tired Napoleon was by even letting Illya see that he had surprised him.

“You didn’t think we would come for you,” Illya said instead of asking it as a question like Napoleon did. “Why?”

Solo blinked, curling back into the arm of the sofa and looking at his feet before glancing over Illya’s shoulder.

“I got the same lecture you did, Peril. It was made perfectly clear that I’m an asset but everyone is expendable,” Napoleon said. “Do they not have the same policy for the KGB?”

They did but only for the most extreme cases which was why every Russian agent was given a cyanide pill. Illya had thrown his away a long time ago. If he couldn’t get himself out of a situation then he didn’t deserve a quick death. But…

He looked at Solo, really looked at him, and realized they had both stumbled into another kind of test. The meanness had left, leaving something even more bare in its place that a tired Napoleon was having trouble covering. He had shaved at some point which only brought out the finger shaped bruises on his pale skin even more. The swelling around his lips had gone down, the glue cleared away, but the skin was still chapped and split. It reminded Illya too much of the choked silence he and Gaby had sat in during the car  and it reminded him too much of the fleeting thought that Napoleon had ran away. Reminded him of the shrug Napoleon had thrown off to admitting that his handlers had all but warned him that they would abandon him at the first possible moment. The fact that he expected the same from Illya and Gaby was almost insulting.

Illya strode forward, saying nothing as Napoleon sized him up and braced for a fight. He stared long and hard at all the bruises, all the opened cuts, the tiredness settled in Napoleon’s eyes. Because he felt like he was at the edge of a step and the moment he leaned forward there would be no coming back. Two weeks of being beaten must have worn on Napoleon’s resolve because he settled to look over Illya’s shoulder again. His expression was closed off but the brutality in contrast to the sharpness of his face would remain a painful reminder for all them for however long this partnership of theirs would last. It would be a dog eared chapter in their memory because everything was so strangely different.

Gaby was willing to murder with little feeling other than her rage because of what was done to her partner.

Napoleon let out a dark insecurity by mistake after being beaten and abused and feeling so alone.

And Illya… Illya’s world was no longer so black and white.

He curled his hand and dragged his knuckles ever so gently over the bruised skin on Napoleon’s face. Solo inhaled sharply and his gaze flicked back to Illya’s with a mixture of surprise and fear that he couldn’t hide anymore. Illya waited until he settled again, pressing his thumb on the miraculously unharmed skin of his chin, before speaking.

“I always come for you,” Illya said with a promise in his voice. “And if I am dead then Gaby. You are not expendable. Not to us.”

Napoleon stayed perfectly still under the intense scrutiny before his tongue darted out with a sharp exhale. “I don’t think you can make that promise, Peril.”

“I am making it now,” Illya said, not letting Napoleon give him the slip. “I will always look. You understand?”

Napoleon didn’t say anything, didn’t move, Illya didn’t even think he was breathing.

And then Napoleon was nodding and Illya nodded too before releasing his partner and stepping back to give him some space.

It felt different. Something was different. But it no longer felt like it was different in a bad way. This way? This way Illya could accept.

“I’m going to shower and then you are going back to hospital,” he said, heading towards his bathroom. “You are too skinny, Cowboy.”

“Peril,” Napoleon called and making Illya stop. “Thank you… for coming to find me.”

Illya watched as Solo shuffled on his couch, wondering what a younger version of him would think if he found out that two American and English spies would find such affection in him that he would allow them in his home. He nodded instead of dwelling.

“Always, Cowboy. Count on it.”

And Napoleon said simply, “I will.”     

 


End file.
